


the twelve step program for life

by qynntessence



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:57:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5551541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qynntessence/pseuds/qynntessence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I will still love you in the morning.</p><p>Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens struggle through depression, anxiety, suicide, death, and learning how to love themselves, among other things. How two mentally-ill twenty-somethings figure out how to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the twelve step program for life

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://hamiltonprompts.tumblr.com/post/135977900537/anything-with-hamilton-and-laurens-dealing-with) on hamiltonprompts.
> 
> This story is probably going to draw from personal experience a bunch, because I find it easier to figure out my problems by projecting them onto fictional characters. Because of this, updates may be sporadic, and I'm sorry about that.
> 
> TW for suicide attempt, depression, hospitals

**1\. There will be some days when you close your eyes while crossing the street, maybe because you want to see what fate has in store for you, or maybe because your depression is running rampant again and you don’t know how to calm her. It’s okay. I will still love you.**

John Laurens wakes up knowing that he will die today.

He doesn’t know if he’s happy.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever been.

He spent his childhood smiling when he was told to do so, at fancy dinner parties, at school, at his parents. He knew how to make his eyes twinkle with mirth, how to look at someone with utter adoration, how to light up when someone he loved entered the room.

It was instinctual. It was easy.

It was never real.

Or it might have been. There was no way to tell.

He should be happy. He should be. He knows that he should be.

He is. (He thinks).

Why can’t he be sure?

It’s so natural to him to be happy, to smile and hug and love people. It’s what he was raised to do.

They talk all the time about fake smiles. What about fake happiness?

What about fake love?

Is his love worth less because he doesn’t know if it’s real?

(He knows the answer to that).

(The answer is yes).

He should be in love. He should be. He knows that he should be.

He is. (He thinks).

He gets out of bed, like it was any other day, like it wasn’t the day he’d been looking forward to for five years. Like he was going to come back. He finds the letter at the back of his desk drawer, the one he wrote five years ago.

The one he said he would throw away if he knew he was happy.

He sets it on the kitchen counter and goes to make coffee. He drinks a cup and pours the rest into a tall glass, leaving it in the fridge for Alexander.

He puts on pants. A shirt. A tie. A jacket. He checks his pockets- phone, keys, wallet.

He locks the door, walks outside.

It’s November eleventh, nine in the morning.

He walks towards work.

The light turns green.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and walks forward.

It hurts.

He smiles.

It’s real.

\--

Alexander wakes up to a still-warm bed, his phone ringing- but it’s not his alarm. He has a client meeting at two, but doesn’t need to be at work until one, so who the fuck is calling him at ten in the morning?

“Alexander Hamilton.” He mumbles into the phone, not bothering to clear the sleep out of his voice- let whoever called him at this ungodly hour feel bad about it.

“Mr. Hamilton, this is Harlem Hospital Center. I’m calling to inform you that Mr. John Laurens was admitted here at 9:27 in the morning due to injuries caused by a car accident. He is currently unstable in the ICU here.”

“That- that can’t be right. He doesn’t drive to work, he walks.” Somehow, this is the only thing registering in Alexander’s brain- not that his boyfriend could die in the hospital any moment, but the fact that the manner of his death is unfathomable, a plot hole in reality.

“He was walking across the street when he was hit, sir. We advise you to get here as soon as possible. If he was on any sort of medication, please bring the prescription bottle. Have a good day, sir.” The line goes dead, and Alexander still isn’t processing properly, because ‘have a good day’ is still racing through his mind and what sort of hospital tells someone that their loved one is dying and wishes them a good day? He takes a breath in, trying to steady himself.

_Okay. John is in the hospital. You can do this. First, get out of bed. Done. Now, find your glasses. Bedside table. Put on your glasses. Done. Walk into the kitchen. Get coffee from fridge. Done. Add ice to coffee. Cry because John Laurens is the kindest man in the universe who knows how you take your coffee and makes sure you’re happy every morning._

_Done._

Alexander wipes away the tears with the back of his hand before setting his coffee glass in the sink. John left him a letter on the counter- it’s addressed to ‘the person I love the most’, and since no one else lives here, it has to be for him. Oh, God, is this going to be one of those moments where he reads of John’s unending love from beyond the grave? Even as he thinks it, he’s ripping the envelope open.

_November 11, 2010_

_Dear the person I love the most,_

_If you are reading this, I’m dead. This is my note that I will destroy if I know I’m happy in five years time._

_I’m not saying that I’m not happy. I’m sure you make me very happy._

_I just don’t know it._

_I was trained on fake smiles and charming grins. I forced myself to love people I couldn’t, I shouldn’t. I’m not sure whether the feeling I get when I think “happy” is actual happiness, or just the fake shit I’m used to._

_I don’t care if I’m not happy. I just want to know._

_I love boys. I know that. I’m trying to be okay with it._

_That’s not why I’m dead. Please don’t make me into a martyr._

_I’m sure it’s not your fault. Like I said, I’m sure you made me happy._

_I probably didn’t realize it._

_I’m sorry._

_John Laurens_

He buries himself in his hands and sobs, loud and ragged, for an indeterminate amount of time. He knows that he could be wasting the last few minutes John has left, but he can’t bring himself to stop. Every time he comes to a startling halt, he sees the coffee glass in the sink and it starts up again, the knowledge that his beautiful, capable, ridiculous John Laurens never knew if he was happy, that he spent every good moment thinking about what his father had done to him.

Alexander suddenly remembers that he has a client meeting at two, and that there is absolutely no way he can do anything that isn’t cry and see John today. He calls up his boss, manages to explain the situation and only chokes on his words once- she tells him to come back when he can, that he doesn’t have to come in until he’s ready, and then he’s crying again because he never really stopped and because people are kind and because John Laurens knows how he takes his coffee.

He makes it to the hospital by eleven, still in pajama pants and one of John’s t-shirts, but he doesn’t have the energy to care as he storms into the waiting room, half-charged phone stuffed into a pocket with John’s SSRIs and the ibuprofen he had taken yesterday for his migraine (his migraine which Alexander had smoothed away with his hands in John’s hair and his words in John’s ear, his migraines which always caused him to become stubborn and moody except for Alexander, he melted into Alexander’s clever fingers and clever words, he told Alexander how much he loved him and somehow John was led to believe that the love he felt wasn’t real and fuck, Alexander is crying again and this time, it’s easier to just not stop).

At some point, someone says John’s name. Alexander blindly follows them- they ask him questions about John’s health, about his history, about his meds. He hands over the bottles without a hitch- at least he’s done something right today.

“Okay, that’s all, Mr. Hamilton. Mr. Laurens has been moved out of the ICU for now, if you would like to see him.” Their voice is cold and professional, but he’s not focusing on that now, he’s focusing on the fact that he can see his John, his wonderful, kind John. “He’s stable, but his injuries are severe. Be careful, Mr. Hamilton.”

“John.” He says with more reverence than the word God deserves. “Oh, John Laurens, my wonderful, dearest John Laurens.” He collapses into the chair nearest the bed, moves closer to hold his hand. He’s waking up, Alexander recognizes that look. It’s the crease on John’s forehead that he’s kissed away, the shying away from light that usually involved burying John’s face in his shirt, the flutter of eyelashes too far away from his skin.

“John.”

“Alexander? You’re not dead.” His voice is smooth, somehow not the gravely, scratchy thing that Alexander envisioned.

“No, I’m not.” He bites his lip nervously. “Neither are you, John.”

“Oh.” And Alexander would be lying if he said there wasn’t longing in his voice, there wasn’t an ache for that.

“We’re in Harlem Hospital. It’s about noon on November eleventh. Um, your right arm is broken, and your left leg, and you’ve got some bruised and cracked ribs. You were unstable in the ICU for a while, so you may have had some internal bleeding. They don’t think you have any head injuries.” He fights to keep his voice steady and calm, just as smooth as John’s.

“Okay.”

“I read your letter.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not today.”

“Okay.”

John lives. Alexander loves him.

They go from there.

**Author's Note:**

> [the twelve-step program for life](http://thequoted.tumblr.com/post/64688403729/1-there-will-be-some-days-when-you-close-your)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Signed: -M.K.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7118881) by [A_dot_Gab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_dot_Gab/pseuds/A_dot_Gab)




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